


day one

by days4daisy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-09 21:12:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16457309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Three days in Stark Tower. Stephen must be in bad shape if he just agreed to this.





	day one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luckybarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckybarton/gifts).



> It was lovely to write for you, luckybarton. I hope you enjoy this :)

The headache takes root between Stephen’s eyes.

“Think about it, that’s all I’m saying.”

It's easy enough to pretend the source of his ailment is the billionaire who won’t leave well enough alone. They stand across from each other at the foot of the Sanctum’s staircase. Stephen pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not all you’re saying,” he mutters, “because you keep talking.”

The last time Tony tried to get Stephen to Stark Tower, it was to bartend his “We Survived the End of the Universe” party. That was back when everyone pretended things were alright after the event. Trillions dead and brought back to life. As if half the universe could cease to exist and return with no consequence.

Stephen glances at his scarred hands. The sight grounds him.

“I keep talking,” Tony says, “because you’re not thinking this through. You’re a smart guy, Strange. All you need is-”

“I’m a smart guy?” Stephen raises a brow. “Wow. We’ve moved to flattery. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Tony sets hands on his waist, a sign that he’s ready to dig in his heels. “Do you even get light in this place?” he asks. “You know, from the sun? This place is a haunted house. Don’t tell me you’ve got black cats and bubbling cauldrons lying around too.”

“Cauldrons, yes. Bubbling, not if you use them right. And you know what a safehouse against threats from the cosmos needs? Floor-to-ceiling windows.”

In the right frame of mind, Stephen would gladly push a few more of Tony’s buttons. But a familiar weariness has begun to unfurl from his fingers. Stephen feels weighed down and exhausted. It's the condition, of course, but awareness has not helped Stephen stop it so far.

“You know, the kid? He misses you,” Tony says. “Wants to hang out, the three of us. He said something about you being cool. Not sure I see it, but - anyway, if you swing by I’ll set it up. Parker could use some good old-fashioned male bonding-”

“You can’t be serious.”

Tony waves an exasperated hand. “Look, I’m not saying forever. A week or two. Get out of this damn cave. Talk to living, breathing human beings again.”

“Wong is a living, breathing human being, last I checked,” Stephen points out, arms crossed.

“Hey, I love Wong!" Tony insists. "Funny guy, great taste in Ben & Jerry’s. But he’s a study bug like you. Do you two even talk? About, like, more than chakras and who makes the best balloon animals?”

The headache is getting worse. “We also talk about food, I’ll have you know. As in, what I’m going to buy him for lunch because he, inevitably, won’t have any money. It’s our thing. Tuna melt at the deli down the block is pretty good, by the way. You should take your ward there for that male bonding trip-”

“Why do you keep doing that?” Tony is staring at the fingers Stephen has pressed to his temple.

Stephen lowers his hand immediately. “I’m fine.”

From the crease of Tony’s brow, he doesn't buy it. “Headache again?”

“No thanks to you.” Stephen frowns when Tony doesn’t say anything. Tony's silences set Stephen more on edge than his words. “You should go,” he says.

“Why?” Tony asks. “Why don’t you want me here?” The question sounds like an accusation.

The seed of a headache has grown to a full-blown attack. Stephen’s hands ball into white-knuckled fists. “Look, I'm sorry. You shouldn’t have seen that before, Tony,” he says. “I appreciate your concern, but it isn’t necessary.”

As soon as the words are out, Stephen knows they're the wrong ones to say.

Tony’s face darkens. “I...shouldn’t have seen that?”

Stephen blows out a breath in frustration. "It wasn’t what it looked like.”

“Doesn’t matter!” Tony’s voice rises. “I don’t care what you think I saw, or what you thought you were doing. Jesus… I shouldn’t have seen that!?”

“Tony-”

“You better be glad someone did,” Tony snaps. “Ending might not have been so happy otherwise.”

Stephen smiles bitterly. “Is this a happy ending to you?”

It’s an unfair shot. Tony flinches, but Stephen can’t find it in himself to apologize again. He’s too tired, too cold.

“Come for a week,” Tony says, quieter. “Hell, three days. You need a break from this place.”

Were Stephen in higher spirits, he would tease Tony for being so desperate for his presence. “I can’t,” he says.

Tony huffs. “You know, Wong? He’d be pretty ticked if he knew you didn’t trust him to hold down the fort for three lousy days,” he presses. “It’s not like I’m saying leave the country, Strange. You’ll be down the block if the Matrix is threatened or whatever.”

Pressure twists through Stephen's temples like screwdrivers. “Tony, we don’t get to put our responsibilities to the side because we-”

The room, without warning, slides all the way to the right. Stephen swallows back a sudden churn of nausea.

“Strange? ...Stephen? Hey, _hey_.”

Stephen wants to tell Tony to back off, but he’s pretty sure Tony is the only thing keeping him upright. Stephen’s legs don’t want to hold his weight; it’s like they’ve turned to dust. Shuddering, Stephen turns wet eyes on his hands. They are visibly trembling but still intact, scarred fingers gripping Tony’s tracksuit.

Stephen is here. Tony is here. Everything is here.

“Three days.” Tony is not smiling. “Maybe it helps, maybe it doesn’t, I don't know. But you need a breather.”

Aggravating as Tony is, he does care in his own way, Stephen has to give him that. “I need to take something for this.” Stephen motions towards his head.

And rest, he definitely needs rest. Wong will understand. Sometimes, Stephen thinks Wong understands more about this than he should.

“Yeah, sure.” Tony doesn’t move, and he's watching Stephen too closely.

Stephen sighs, and the last of his fight leaves him. “Three days,” he agrees slowly. “But next week. I need to get things in order here first.”

“You got it.” Tony’s smile is abrupt and genuine. “Wednesday. I’ll let the kid know, set up something Thursday or Friday. You like shawarma? Nevermind, we’ll figure it out.” He is more animated than he’s been on this entire visit. Stephen only feels more tired.

“Hey.” Tony’s smile turns uncertain. “You, uh, need help getting upstairs, or-”

Stephen holds a hand up to stop him. That he feels well enough to let go of Tony’s arm must be a win. “I’m ok,” he says. “And...fine. Wednesday.”

“Good! Wednesday. Perfect. And you’ve got my cell if you need anything.”

“Will you get out of here?”

Tony’s grin looks more like himself, white teeth and dancing eyes. “Going. But we’re on, Strange. Wednesday, don’t forget. I’ll pick you up.”

“You most certainly will not.” But Tony’s wink says the decision is out of Stephen's hands.

Stephen hovers by the staircase long after Tony’s exit. He hooks a hand on the banister for support.

Three days in Stark Tower. Stephen must be in bad shape if he just agreed to this.

***

The first time was a mistake. An understandable one given the circumstances, but still. The second time could not be a mistake after the first. Then, there were the third and fourth times. After those, Stephen stopped keeping track.

Stephen got out of bartending the We Survived the End of the Universe party at Stark Tower. Only had to fix one dirty martini as a demonstration. The assembled oohed and ahhed as liquor appeared out of thin air and deposited neatly into a glass. Tony must have paid far too much for the gold-rimmed martini set, like everything else in the place.

Stephen’s life used to look like Stark Tower; a skyline view, too many designer suits to count. And god, the watch collection. Memories of those days made Stephen queasy. It was no wonder he never felt comfortable in Stark Tower.

Stephen played his discomfort off well. He feigned insult that the attendee most into his bartending was the Avenger not old enough to drink. He should have left soon after, but the liquor kept flowing, as did stories of battles won and lost. Stephen remembered some first-hand. Others, he cross-checked against shadows of futures walked with the time stone. Fourteen million six-hundred and five possible outcomes - so much had to go right to win.

The night rang with laughter and tears, and in every story Stephen lived memories that did not belong to him. Stephen was in a rare dizzy state when Stark found him, oversaturated by wine and thinking too much.

“Your hands,” Tony said out of nowhere.

Stephen looked at them, heart in his throat, as if his hands would no longer be attached to his wrists. Like he was back on Titan, one fleck of skin gone, then another. Stephen knew the end was coming, but he still panicked as numbness scaled spider-like up his legs.

His hands were still attached though, shaking but present. “Oh yeah,” Stephen mumbled. “They do that.”

“They do that?” Tony liked doubting everything, as if thoughts born of a brain not his own were unreliable. That kind of suspicion spoke to its own damage, but Stephen did not bother calling Tony on it.

“It’s fine,” Stephen said instead. “I’m used to it.”

Something changed in Tony’s face. “A doc used to pain, huh? That’s a new one.”

Stephen should have smiled and told Tony to fuck off, but he was too relieved to care. His hands were still there, solid as ever. Unsteady, sure, but they existed, as did everyone else in Stark Tower. Stephen saw the alternatives to victory. Fourteen million six-hundred and four of them. All present that night could have suffered so much worse than they did. So much worse.

“Hey...wow, one too many?” Tony had an arm around Stephen’s waist.

Like most, Stephen had his evenings of inebriation in the past. Loss of balance was never one of Stephen’s common side effects, but that night wasn't exactly normal. Stephen let Tony guide him to one of who-knew-how-many couches.

“Steady, Strange.” An odd smile crossed Tony’s face. “I need you to hold it together, buddy. The others aren’t doing so hot, you might have noticed.”

Tony was suffering too, of course. Stephen watched Tony lose his mind millions of times. He saw Tony angry and terrified. Stephen bent under Tony’s guilt as if it was his own. He felt too close to Tony after all he saw.

“Don’t worry,” Stephen assured him. “You’ve saved enough lives. I won’t make you save one more.”

Stephen could not say why the sentiment drew Tony to him. Tony leaned into his space, eyes fixed to Stephen’s like he was searching for something. There was plenty of time to pull away. Stephen didn't.

He expected something rough and sudden. The softness of the kiss, its caution, told Stephen this was trouble.

It was only one mistake, though. Then two, then three, then four. Stephen stopped counting after that.

***

Tony picks Stephen up in a black Maserati so fresh off the line that Stephen can’t put a model name to it. Tony hops out of the driver’s seat. His mouth quirks as he opens the passenger side door.

If Stephen felt like himself, he would play into the act. Throw out some barb about this not being a date. Or remind Tony that the Cloak is one knapsack knot away from stepping in as needed.

Stephen only musters a quiet “Thanks.”

Tony’s cheer dampens at the mild reply. But he’s off again soon enough, shutting Stephen’s door with a flourish and sliding back into the driver’s seat. Bystanders have stopped to watch their performance. There is never a shortage of camera phones when Tony Stark is around.

Tony slips a pair of sunglasses on. “Kid’s stopping by Friday after school,” he says. “I’m thinking - you heard of that bar that’s an arcade? Or the arcade that’s a bar? It’s new, they’ve got Atari drinks for the responsible adults, wall-to-wall video games for the kiddos."

He's still talking. “For tonight, I’m thinking takeout. Know I said shawarma, but trust me, there’s this Italian place down the street. Their bolognese is insane. Shouldn’t be legal. Who knows, maybe it isn't. Better get it while we can, right?”

Stephen is not sure whether his opinion is being asked. “Italian’s fine,” he says.

Tony glances at him a moment before pulling out from his parking spot. Sun-drenched streets reflect off his shades. “Anything you had in mind?” he asks.

“What?”

Tony peeks over. “Anything you want to do on your mini-vacation from the mystic arts? Movies you want to see? Food you’re craving? Mini-golf? Day trip out to the Hamptons? New York is our oyster, Strange.”

“You do know I live in the same city as you,” Stephen says, brow raised. “I can do those things any time.”

“Yeah.” Tony grins. “But this is your shot to do them with me.”

He is unbelievable. Stephen rests his head against the seat with a sigh.

Truth is, talking about plans is odd. Movies. Takeout. Cocktails named after old gaming consoles. It all feels so...normal. After everything, how do people go to the movies anymore? Play mini-golf? Do any of those things?

“You can’t be this offended by the thought of hanging out with me.” Tony’s voice is light, but Stephen reads the concern in his face.

Stephen considers a moment. “I’d like to catch up on sleep,” he says.

It’s the worst moment to hit a red light. Tony has more time than he should to look at Stephen. “You're...saying you want to sleep with me?” Tony cracks a smirk. “I mean, I thought I’d work up to that. Wine and dine, set the mood. But sure, yeah, count me in.”

“You’re intolerable.” Stephen finds himself smiling.

“I grow on people,” Tony corrects. “Like moss? Or that - you know that ivy on those old churches in the Lower East Side?”

“Or mold?” Stephen adds.

“Yeah see, that’s what I get for trying to cheer you up. You get punchy when you’re happy, Strange.” Tony’s smile turns softer. “Sleep’s fine. Whatever you need, ok?”

“Yeah.” Stephen looks out his window. He isn’t able to muster a thank you, but he thinks Tony may understand anyway.

***

“Strange? Strange! Shit, come on, come on…”

Stephen was in a room. Dark, blurry. He squinted, groaning. Texture began to materialize from the smear of browns and grays.

The room was his bedroom in the Sanctum. Stephen sighed relief. He was back, and that meant the timeline would not change again. He did not know how or why, but time without warning spiralled out of control. It was looping, the same outcome again and again. Thanos’ resolved smile trailed Stephen like a stalker, death after death left in his wake.

In that ever-repeating future, the event did not take them. Stephen watched the Titan crush Peter Parker under one mighty boot. The space guardians burned alive in a blaze of the power stone’s might. Stark’s head was separated from his body by his own desperately-formed iron blade. It rolled to a stop against Stephen’s boot.

It was the wrong future. Stephen should have relinquished the time stone in exchange for Tony's life. He remembered crumbling to ash and waiting in another plane - some place between life and death. Not Heaven, not Hell, just...emptiness. A holding place, or maybe that was all there was at the end of everything.

Stephen was not supposed to be on the board in the final end game. He had to relinquish the stone, and he had to be gone. The lives of the Avengers, of trillions, depended on it.

Stephen had to find another way to remove himself from the playing field. That was easy enough on the wreck that remained of Thanos’ home planet. In his flight from the battle ground, he found a splintered edge of Maw’s ship, thin but quite sharp and durable steel.

Stephen pushed his sleeves up and began to cut. The pain was intense. His damaged fingers trembled like the early days after Strange's first surgery. Back when he glared at Christine and demanded to know what _they_ did to his hands; not, of course, what he did to himself.

Stephen missed that chance to accept responsibility. He did not intend to miss another.

The Cloak, a frayed tatter thanks to Thanos, tried to stop Stephen. Fabric wrenched at Stephen’s hands and hooked around his arms. Stephen cast it away. He did not expect it to understand, why would it? The object chose Stephen. It would not understand the need to let go.

“It’s not the right future,” he explained, voice shaking. “I have to fix it.”

It worked. Stephen was in the Sanctum, in his unlit bedroom on the floor. He allowed himself a smile, weary and relieved. Stephen felt light-headed from the rapid shift in visions. Lack of stability was normal in the aftermath of future walking. The feeling would fade, it always did.

The only thing Stephen did not understand was why Tony Stark was in his room at that moment. On his knees in front of Stephen, gawking, uncharacteristically speechless.

“What is it?” Stephen asked. His tongue was like cotton in his mouth, and his stomach rolled. Stephen tried to shake his head to clear it. No - he was still too dizzy. Stephen blew out a breath, and his eyes started to close. He felt a bit less steady than usual, but the feeling would pass.

“Hey, Strange - Stephen? No, no you don’t.” A hard shake made Stephen’s head slosh. He scowled and forced sluggish eyes open. The wide-eyed terror on Tony’s face was not what he expected. “Good, there you go.” Tony said, breathless. “Stay with me. You’re alright, buddy. You’re ok.” It sounded like something one said if another person was not ok.

“What?” Stephen felt cold. His hands were trembling, and wet.

He looked down. Blood. There was so much blood. It was on his fingers and soaked through bandages wrapped around his wrists. It wet his pants and stained the rolled up sleeves of his shirt.

A jagged shard of glass sat on the floor a few feet from Stephen. He blinked at it, and around the room. The windows were not damaged. But the mirror looked like a spider web, fractured in a fist-shaped ring. Stephen did not remember doing that. He was on Titan in the wrong future. It was not glass, it was a piece of Maw’s ship. The Avengers were dying. Stephen had to do something.

The Cloak hovered like a worried parent in the open doorway; a tremor ruffled its hem as it swayed back and forth. The door looked broken through, lock splintered and slivers of wood on the floor.

“Hey, eyes open.” The instruction followed a trio of gentle swats to Stephen’s cheek. There wasn’t a shred of levity in Tony's expression. “Hang on,” he said, “help’s coming. We’ll keep it quiet. Just - eyes on me, ok?”

Tony did not understand. It suddenly seemed important that he should. Stephen took a deep breath and tried to steady his voice. “I-I had to,” he said. “It was the wrong future. Someone had to make it right.”

Stephen didn’t expect Tony to get the concept. Future-walking, alternate timelines. Even with everything Tony Stark had seen, it was a stretch. But Stephen still felt the weight of his failure when Tony pressed his lips together. He looked resolute and resigned. “Awful big burden for one guy, doc.”

Stephen’s head swam. He wanted to sleep, but Stephen noted his own sluggish heartbeat and the chill in his bones. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t. Stephen lost too much blood. His body was going into shock.

And it was on Tony Stark’s shoulders. Again. “I hear...shouldering burdens is what being an Avenger is all about,” Stephen slurred.

Tony offered a smile. Stephen had a sinking feeling it was more for his benefit than any relief on Tony’s part. “You’re not wrong.” Tony took his hand with a strong grip. His fingers wore as much blood as Stephen’s. “You good?” Tony asked.

Stephen swallowed back agony, fear, and guilt, and forced himself to nod. “I’m good,” he said. “Won’t make you save me, remember?”

Tony’s voice sounded wrong; tight, quiet. “Yeah, doc. I remember,” he said. “And I’m holding you to it. Stay with me.”

***

Stephen wonders when Tony decided to give a damn about him and vice versa.

Tony is no stranger to exaggeration, but his praise of the bolognese from La Tosca down the block is on the money. It’s damn good even to Stephen’s discerning tastes. Tony insisted on transferring their feast out of the restaurant-provided styrofoam containers and onto his own personal china. “Gotta put in some effort, right?” was Tony’s reasoning. “I said I'd wine and dine you.”

Tony is chatting away about something he’s working on. A city-wide emergency response system built into Manhattan’s mainframe. Once finalized, it will ignite alert protocols to all agencies for any disaster. Earthquake, hurricane, alien invasion, the usual New York catastrophes. It sounds like a compromise between heightened technology and protection against potential corruption.

Tony never mentions the failed Ultron experiment by name, but it hovers like a dark cloud over every word. Vulnerability softens his usual hubris.

Stephen is only half-listening, and Tony seems alright with the arrangement. He never stops to ask Stephen’s opinion or prompt him for alternative ideas like he normally would. While Tony speaks, Stephen is able to eat, drink, and not think about why he’s on day one of three as a resident of Stark Tower.

To Stephen, it has not been long since he marveled about Tony’s ego fitting into his iron helmet. But years have passed for Tony since that moment on the Maw's ship. Tony lived for years in doubt of ever reversing Thanos’ actions.

Stephen wonders how he would have managed it, if he could have remained even halfway sane. He scratches at the gauze wrapped around one of his still healing wrists.

Tony was with Stephen when he blinked awake to the beep of a heart monitor, wrapped wrists resting in his lap. Stephen mustered an admirable smile and rasped, “You must have somewhere more important to be.”

It still bothers Stephen that Tony did not, could not, joke back. He shook his head and didn’t say a word.

So much has changed between them since Stephen concurred with Tony’s plan to take the fight to Thanos. Their rapport should have been more tense upon their arrival on Titan. After all, Stephen was still adamant then about letting Tony or Parker die if the time stone was in the balance. But something shifted the moment the Maw’s ship crashed and Stephen helped Tony to his feet. They understood each other's burden in a way no one else quite could.

“You don’t eat that bolognese, I’m helping myself, doc." Stephen wonders if Tony realizes just how blatant his concern is. He does not mind it as much as he should.

Stephen plucks his glass of Malbec from the table. Leaving Tony sitting, he wanders to the floor-to-ceiling living room windows. Manhattan sprawls beneath him, an ant farm of life, like diamonds twinkling under perfect light. Stephen rests a hand on the glass. It’s cold under his fingertips. He wonders if there’s a chance of waking up tomorrow to snow.

His old penthouse had windows like these. A city showcase, a sideshow. Stephen remembers touching the glass like this before his desperation voyage to Nepal.

The bandages around Stephen's wrists are a jarring white in the mood light Tony has set for their evening. Low overhead lamps, candles on the dining table, on the kitchen island, on the coffee table.

A gentle hand sets in the small of Stephen’s back. “I got tossed through these windows once,” Tony says. “Fun times. Thor’s brother Loki - you know, the one who came back with the neck thing? Still hasn’t apologized. I’m all for forgiveness, but you’ve got to give a little, you know?”

“Yeah, I know Loki. You might be waiting awhile for that apology.” Stephen glances at Tony over his shoulder. “Hell of a view from up here.”

“Sure is,” Tony says. His fingers trace Stephen’s spine through his shirt. “Guess I’ll get to enjoy it more now. Catastrophe averted, universe still up and running for the time being.”

“For the time being,” Stephen agrees quietly. He sips his wine and looks back out the window. Tony mirrors his pose, save the hand bridged on Stephen’s back. “I looked up the menu at that arcade bar,” Stephen adds. “I’m not sure how I feel about a gin mixer named after Pong.”

“I’m all in on the Maker’s blend for Galaga,” Tony says. “Inside joke.” His thumb scales higher on Stephen’s spine.

Stephen’s mouth quirks behind his wine glass. “Are you trying to ask me something? Or are you moonlighting as a chiropractor?”

“So, here’s the thing. I’m fine with the wining and dining and nothing else. Totally fine. But,” Tony shrugs. “I’m ok like this, I am. But if you want-”

“I’m not saying no,” Stephen says. He takes another sip of his wine and tries not to notice the blistering white of the gauze threaded around his arm. “As long as you don’t feel obligated.”

“Why the hell would I…” Tony must see something in the way Stephen looks between him and his own wrists. His voice cuts out, and something hard, almost offended, forms on his face.

His fingers hook into the fabric of Stephen’s shirt. "Bolognese works every time.” The words are light, but his face doesn’t change; solemn, edging anger.

Stephen snorts and mumbles, “Guess so.” He leans back into Tony’s hand. Tony's expression relaxes.

***

Stephen shoots awake.

As predictable as the nightmares have become, he should be more used to them. They are a part of life now, as ever present as his shaking hands or the force of magic thrumming beneath his skin. But every night seems as violent as the last. Fear clenches in his chest like a white-knuckled fist. He doubles over bent knees, struggling to breathe.

Stephen is drenched in sweat, but he's shaking. He feels smothered but is not wearing a shirt, there is no second skin to shed. Except the bandages around his wrists, blaring white, loud as a scream. Stephen stares at them and tries to ease his sprinting heartbeat. Funny, the methods of pulse control he once tossed out so flippantly in his old life never seem to work for himself.

Stephen isn’t sure if he’s glad for Tony’s silence or if he wants Tony to say something. Tony had to know what he was getting into when he extended his invitation to Stark Tower. And when he welcomed Stephen into his bed.

In the lightless bedroom, he can still make out the shine of sweat on Tony’s brow. Stephen wonders what Tony's nightmares are about and if he's been awake for long.

“I need water.” Stephen hates how his voice croaks. He feels like a book cracked down the middle. Tony doesn’t need to see this much of Stephen. Like Stephen didn’t need to see as much of Tony during his future walking. They are too close without earning it.

Stephen looks at his own hands clasped and shaking between his knees. His bandaged wrists rasp together.

“You want company?” Tony asks.

Stephen does not want to say no, but he doesn’t know how to say yes. He peels off Tony’s expensive bed sheets and sets bare feet on the floor. His sweatpants hang off his waist. Their arrangement is so odd - a kiss, a touch, teasing and lying together. Nothing else, not yet. It must be a change of pace for Tony, given his reputation.

Change of pace from who Stephen used to be too.

Tony’s footsteps trail Stephen’s down the hall. There is just enough light to see the way without needing to squint. Tony must have sensors built into the walls.

Tony plucks glasses from the cabinet before Stephen can. He pours from the refrigerator dispenser and holds the first to Stephen. Stephen drains half of it before Tony’s own is full.

Stephen sets his glass on the counter and braces hands next to it. Unease knots in Stephen’s stomach. It weaves around his organs, his lungs. His chest aches with every breath. He knows Tony’s eyes are on him, tracing the bow of his back, the tremor in his shoulders.

Stephen chuckles. “I’m sure this isn’t what you had in mind when you extended this invitation.”

“No master plan,” Tony says. “Just thought you needed a breather.”

“You always have a master plan.” Stephen expects Tony to disagree with him, push the argument.

Tony doesn’t say a word. His eyes linger on Stephen; observing, curious, like Stephen is an experiment in his lab. Stephen’s throat tightens. He forces down more water.

“I know what you did,” he says. “I saw the sacrifices you made. How angry you were, how alone you felt. You did what had to be done, Tony. All of you did.”

Tony drums a thumb on the rim of his glass. “All of _us_ ,” he corrects. “I have no idea how we get past it, Strange, I really don’t. Guess that’s why I wanted you here for a few days. I thought we’d figure it out. Or get a start, or - I don’t know, something. But if not, whatever. You got some damn good pasta, and you have Pong-themed gin in your future. I’ve heard of less successful weeks.”

Stephen glances at his hands. They are not shaking anymore. He sighs, back resting against the countertop. “I sort of miss when you were a pompous ass,” he says.

“I mean, I can still be that.” Tony’s smile tilts at a corner. “There’s a lot I can be.”

“I’m seeing that.” The reply comes out quieter than Stephen intends.

Tonight, Stephen dreamed about future ten million seven hundred and thirty-five. The one when Tony died in his arms on Titan, his own iron sword severing his chest. There was so much blood. More than when Stephen came to at the Sanctum, Tony’s stained hands clasped with his. So much blood, and Stephen could not stop it no matter how many spells he tried. He no longer had the time stone in that future. It would have been so easy to turn back the clock, to watch the blood dry from Tony’s clothes.

“God, I want to kiss you,” Tony says, and Stephen blinks out of his thoughts. Dark eyes rest on his, troubled but interested. “A lot. But I’m lost here. I don’t know what you need, or - hell, what I need. I don’t know what the right call is here.”

Stephen manages to smile. “I’m not made of glass,” he says. As soon as the words come out, he knows they are the wrong thing to say. Tony looks away, tendons tight on his throat. Somehow, losing Tony’s eye contact makes Stephen feel more exposed. His insides may as well be tumbling out; he should be on his knees trying to scoop them back in.

That happened in future seven million two hundred and eighty-six. Thanos chuckled at the sight. It must have looked pathetic. Stephen wasting his final breaths on his knees trying to collect his own vital organs.

“That came out wrong,” Stephen concedes, a frustrated hand through his hair. The bandages on his wrist scrape his forehead. “Tony, I told you, I won’t be one more person you have to save. I know how many you’ve had to save already.”

“You keep…” Tony’s eyes narrow, looking confused. “You keep saying that like I would choose not to. Like you think I don’t…” He trails off, but Stephen wishes that he would keep talking. There are too many possibilities in this silence, too many directions it can go.

Stephen feels the prickle of danger in his spine. It buzzes along the shell of his ear and makes his fingers twitch together. He ignores it. “I’ll take that kiss now,” he says.

Tony’s eyes meet his, dark and unreadable. Stephen waits for his telltale smirk, but it never shows. Tony puts his glass down and comes to him. He braces hands on either side of Stephen on the counter and steps into his space. Stephen lets him, not moving. The sleep warmth is still settled into Tony’s skin.

Stephen sets fingers on Tony’s stomach as their lips meet. His hand is not shaking. Stephen sighs, and he feels Tony smirk against him. Better late than never. His moustache scratches Stephen’s lip. He realizes he’s become used to it, the sensation does not jolt him as it once did.

“Still only staying three days.” The words sound far away. Stephen struggles to concentrate as Tony’s mouth follows his jaw to where it meets his neck. A graze of teeth follow, and Stephen sighs. His hand scratches approval on Tony’s belly.

“Yeah well,” Tony shrugs, “I know where you live. Maybe I’ll come by your place next time. Bring the kid. Boys night. Invite Wong.”

Stephen huffs at the thought, but he’s already turning, seeking out Tony’s mouth again. They meet with more interest, less cautious as they move against each other. Tony’s fingers are tracing Stephen’s hand on his stomach. They graze the outline of the gauze.

“Thanks,” Stephen says. The response is instinct, and it surprises him. He expects to be furious or overwhelmed by the reminder.

Tony’s mouth turns higher, and he looks Stephen right in the eye. Stephen wonders what he’s thinking, but he can’t bring himself to ask.

He has no idea what this is, or what it can become. A step, maybe, in the right direction. Day one of something better. Or, at least,  something that won't be worse.

*The End*


End file.
